The song starts and the words appear on the huge TV behind me. I don’t need them. I turn to everyone. All eyes on me. “Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes,” I sing, beginning one of my favorite songs from Rent. I push through the awkwardness like Party Guy would and gain momentum up to the chorus. People are watching. Some nodding with the beat. Anna and the guys have come closer to cheer me on.

“Sing along,” I yell into the microphone. Everyone joins in, “How about love, how about love,” and I put the microphone near Anna. She belts high with her arm around me. The guys give her some backup. By the end of the song, everyone is singing and dancing.

Anna grabs the microphone and starts flipping the pages of the songbook as the party gets louder. Mission accomplished. I head to the bathroom and get plenty of high fives and fist bumps along the way. One girl hugs me. I feel like I could do anything. Maybe that’s the vodka talking.

The bathroom is fancy and modern—there’s even a bidet. I can’t believe I’m at a party in New York City. Meeting people achieving their dreams. I’m so far behind the Duncans and Elijahs of the world, but it feels like I’m on my way. I spend extra time looking in the mirror and smiling at myself. August in the bathroom.

When I come out, someone is waiting for me in the hallway. Yazmin leans against the wall, arms crossed. I smile. She smiles. It’s just us now. “Nice job on the mic,” she says.

“I’m just getting warmed up.” Party Guy flirting. The lights are dim, and my heart is beating so fast I can hear it in my ears.

“Want to join me for a smoke?” she asks, nodding in the direction of sliding doors leading to the balcony.

“I’m down.”

I slide the door open and follow her out. The city looks big out here, like it could swallow me up. The balcony overlooks Central Park, but it’s too dark to see. It’s chilly out—the cold air feels good on my face. Fall is coming, pushing summer out of the way. Yazmin hugs herself, trying to warm up. I take off my leather jacket and put it over her shoulders. “What a gentleman,” she says.

“I try,” I say. “Does your boyfriend give you his coat?”

Her eyebrows go up. “Someone jealous?”

“Not at all,” I say. Party Guy is all confidence.

“We broke up last night. We’d been fighting.”

Well, this changes everything. I stand up straight. “I’m sorry,” I lie—I’m actually not sorry.

She leans back on the ledge and pulls a vape pen out of her pocket. “Want a hit?”

“That’s pot?” I ask.

She laughs. “Legal stuff from California.”